


petrichor

by revelries



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Gratuitous Background Imagery, Ichiraku Ramen (Naruto), International Fanworks Day 2021, Introspection, Konohagakure | Hidden Leaf Village, Pre-Chuunin Exams, Rain, artistic liberties were taken with konoha’s layout, so much introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29466999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revelries/pseuds/revelries
Summary: When he places them back onto the bridge of his nose, the world has gone blurry, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, each outline streaming into the next.He blinks and briefly, just for a moment, lines between villages blur as he looks at the Leaf and thinks of something suspiciously close tohome.On Kabuto’s interactions in the Hidden Leaf.
Relationships: Yakushi Kabuto & Teuchi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	petrichor

At night, the Hidden Leaf is aglow with lamps and streetlights, a vibrant hub of humanity in the middle of the forest. The hustle and bustle of the marketplace continues long after the sun sets, abating only when the sky begins to turn a pearlescent grey, signifying the start of a new day. It’s an electric, intoxicating place; shinobi and civilians alike roam the streets, perusing the wares and chatting with vendors. In the food district, paper lanterns hang over the cavernous roofs of the various restaurants. Each one is veiled in red and white banners: _new discounts!_ they proclaim, _special deals!_

Kabuto works best at night; under the cover of the crowd, he is able to slip through the village unnoticed and unbothered. It is during this time that he’s able to sneak out when he needs to— nobody spares him a second glance, and it’s far too easy for him to leave and deliver his reports to Orochimaru, returning with time enough to spare. 

He begins by first speaking with several of the shop owners, making pleasant conversation. He makes sure to be just memorable enough that they’d recognize him if questioned, but not enough to be given a second thought otherwise. After a few minutes, he’ll slip back into the crowd, disappearing into the mass of people. It’s hard to keep track of any one face in a crowd this large; even if anyone _had_ been paying attention to him (though he takes special care to avoid that), they’d never be able to pick him out from the others. When he returns from his report, he makes sure to walk past several of the merchants he’d spoken to earlier. 

The human mind is a fickle thing; it’ll fill in the gaps between memories until all of them can confidently swear that they’d seen him ambling by idly the entire time. It’s always a good habit to establish an alibi, he finds. Should anything go wrong, the vendors can vouch for him: _yes,_ they’d say confidently, _he was here all night._

The Leaf Village is like no place he’s ever been before. The Hidden Cloud had been cold and wet; in the early morning, the mist clung low to the ground, hanging thick and heavy. He’d always been restless there, antsy even amidst the calm of the village. The Sand, in comparison, had been hot and dry; spires of rock cut across the desert plains like great fists rising up from the ground. When the sun set, temperatures fell quickly. Most preferred to stay isolated indoors, insulated against the harsh night winds. He doesn’t like to think about the Stone, if he can help it.

Even the Sound, for all its merits, has never made him feel alive the same way he has in the Leaf. Such is the nature of a village divided by both distance and borders; the laboratories are interconnected, yes, but only through their shared purpose. Even in his own room, back in Orochimaru’s main compound, he’d never completely been able to escape the smell of antiseptic, too stark and sterile for comfort. 

There is no camaraderie in the Sound, only blind devotion and worship toward one man alone. They might all be disciples of the Snake, trailing behind Orochimaru like lost children, but that loyalty does not extend to each other. When he talks to Orochimaru’s other followers, each interaction is formal, a stilted business transaction between colleagues. Karin’s voice, sweetly saccharine, is like nails on chalkboard and he does his best not to wince every time he visits the Southern Hideout— there’s always something for her to complain about, even when there isn’t. Nevertheless, he’s civil enough, for Orochimaru’s sake. After all, that’s what’s expected of him as Orochimaru’s dutiful right hand man.

In the Leaf, however, he slides into his mask like a second skin; it feels almost natural for him to play the role of the clumsy genin, fitting perfectly into his niche in the village. He isn’t quite sure what to think about it— it’s disconcerting, certainly, to _belong_ somewhere. He’s never had that before, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise in the Sound. The Leaf doesn’t expect anything from him; he’s not a prodigy in their eyes, nor does he have to be. It’s strangely freeing to have the privilege of being just an ordinary teenager, even if it is all just an act.

If he were honest with himself, he might even let himself admit that he feels at home here. But he hasn’t been in the habit of being honest with himself for a long time, and so he keeps his mind on the mission.

  
One night, when he returns from his monthly report, he finds that it has begun to rain. He hears it first— the light pitter-patter of falling droplets, irregular, but growing steadier by the minute. The dirt beneath his feet dampens as the water sinks into the thirsty ground, and as he hurries back, the heady scent of petrichor rises from the leaves, tinged with the musk of pine needles and cedar trees.

The village emerges from the forest, the stark cliffs of Hokage Rock rising from below the horizon line. Glowing pagodas and bamboo canopies come into view from behind the trees as he enters the village, strolling casually down to the food district like he’d never even left.

The savory smell of gyoza and dumplings wafts through the air and his stomach rumbles. He can spare the time to sit and eat a meal, he decides. In the Sound, he has sometimes gone days with nothing more than food pills for nourishment— it’s more efficient that way, and when he’s in the middle of an experiment, he simply can’t be bothered to get up and make himself food. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy the luxury of free time while he’s in the Leaf— after all, his days here are numbered. All good things must come to an end. He justifies it to himself by framing it as another opportunity to gather intel, despite the fact that Orochimaru has no need for information on the Leaf’s civilians, let alone its restaurants. 

As he walks, he takes the opportunity to observe. It’s an old habit; he’d been trained from an early age to pick out the nuances and intricacies in the interactions of the shinobi around him. Spies who cannot do this do not tend to live very long, and now, it comes as naturally to him as breathing.

In the Leaf, the streets are awash with rain, mirror-like puddles reflecting the fluorescent glow of neon restaurant signs. The dull murmur of the crowd is an ever-present hum in his ears, yet there is a faint, underlying tension in the air. He catches snatches of various conversations:

 _“_ Did you hear about the Nine-Tails boy?” one woman says in a hushed whisper. “He actually graduated from the Academy!”

“That monster? No way! We can’t trust someone like that to be a shinobi!”

Kabuto feels something akin to pity for the child, but brushes it off. He makes a mental note of it as he carries along down the street; he’s sure Orochimaru would appreciate the information.

Around him, multicolored umbrellas unfurl, shielding their occupants against the downpour. He’d neglected to bring an umbrella with him; he hadn’t expected the rain, and so he walks carefully underneath the verandas in a futile attempt to stay dry, or to at least refrain from getting any wetter than he already is.

His shirt has long since been soaked, darkened where raindrops have fallen. Water squelches in his sandals with every step, seeping between his toes, which have grown numb with cold. His glasses are wet, water streaming down the lenses. He takes them off to wipe them on the fabric of his shirt, but succeeds only in smudging them further, his fingerprints staining the glass. When he places them back onto the bridge of his nose, the world has gone blurry, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, each outline streaming into the next.

He blinks and briefly, just for a moment, lines between villages blur as he looks at the Leaf and thinks of something suspiciously close to _home._ And then a raindrop falls on his shoulder, cold and wet, and the spell is broken.

He notices that he’s shivering and quickly slides into a booth at Ichiraku’s. He _could_ burn some of his chakra to warm himself up, but it’s nothing that a bowl of ramen can’t fix, and in his experience, the simplest solutions are often also the most elegant.

“Tonkotsu ramen, please,” he says, water pooling into a puddle at his feet. He wrings out the hem of his shirt and watches as rain splashes onto the cobble below.

His breath is white mist in the cold air, and he blows on his hands, trying to warm them up. Strands of his hair, silver-grey and wet, have slipped out of his ponytail during his walk and are now plastered to his face. He’s sure he looks like a disheveled mess, caught unprepared by the sudden storm, but that’s alright. There’s no need for sterility in the Leaf, not like there is in the Sound. Here, he has no reputation to uphold. He exhales deeply, relaxing his posture.

“One bowl, coming right up!” Teuchi says. Kabuto watches as he works. Teuchi’s liver-spotted hands are lightning fast, cutting up the toppings with practiced ease. Fat sizzles as he drops each slice of pork belly onto his pan, steam rising from the metal with a sharp hiss. Save for the two of them, the restaurant is completely empty.

“Is Ayame still out on her trip?” he asks. Teuchi looks up from his chopping board. “Checking out new suppliers, right?”

Teuchi chuckles. “You still remember? You’re a good listener. I’m impressed.”

He laughs, bashful. “I try my best.”

Teuchi sighs. “I miss her, but I’m sure you already knew that. She’ll be back by tomorrow, but I can’t help but worry. Ah, well, that’s what it’s like being a father, I suppose. But that’s enough about me— you didn’t come here just to listen to an old man talk.” 

He laughs, loud and hearty, and slides a bowl of steaming ramen across the counter toward Kabuto, waiting for him to begin eating before he speaks up again. 

“So I heard you retook the Chuunin Exams last week. How did it go?”

“Ah,” Kabuto replies, sheepish. He breaks eye contact, looking down at his bowl. “About that. I failed again.” There is a brief pause as warm broth trickles down his throat. He dabs delicately at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

“You’ll get it next time,” Teuchi says, “cheer up, kid.” 

He reaches across the counter, patting Kabuto gently on the shoulder. Kabuto stiffens at the sudden contact, muscles tensing. He nearly drops his chopsticks, but catches himself just in time and takes a breath. He relaxes. He’s freezing, but Teuchi’s hand is warm— paternal, even— and is strangely comforting. Teuchi doesn’t seem to notice his error, thankfully. 

“You know what they say!” he continues. “Seventh time’s the charm!”

“Nobody says that,” Kabuto protests, but an involuntary smile spreads across his face nevertheless.

“Of course they do! Hey look, you’re smiling again!” Teuchi looks pleased with himself. He takes Kabuto’s empty bowl, wiping the counter with a wet cloth. “Here, this one’s on the house.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can pay, I just went on another D-rank yesterday—”

“Definitely!” The creases around Teuchi’s eyes crinkle as he beams at him. “Lighten up, kid. Let other people look after you every once in a while.”

“Oh,” he says, barely louder than a whisper, more out of surprise than anything else. He’s silent for a brief moment as he lets the words sink in. “Thank you, then,” he says, regaining his composure. He stands up to leave, meeting Teuchi’s eyes. “I really appreciate it.” 

Teuchi waves. “I’ll see you around! Take care of yourself.”

He returns the gesture and walks away, fading back into the crowd. He wanders listlessly, lost in his own thoughts.

The first rule he’d ever learned as a spy was also the most important, a mantra which was repeated to him over and over, constantly: _Don’t stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself._

He supposes he’s failed in that regard. Kabuto is supposed to pass by unnoticed; he is meant to be forgettable, ordinary, and for the most part, he’d succeeded in the past. He’d conducted countless reconnaissance missions in that manner, fading into the background. People always ignore what they don’t want to deal with, and a scrawny child sitting alone in the shadows was no exception.

But Teuchi is different. Kabuto had been fourteen when he’d met him, sitting on a bench by Ichiraku’s, watching Naruto from afar. While the jinchuriki had never been one of Orochimaru’s primary interests, the Sannin had still been curious all the same, and so it had fallen to Kabuto to monitor his progress. It was a simple enough task; he’d nearly finished his observations, getting up to leave, when Teuchi called out to him.

“Hey kid! Are you hungry? You’ve been sitting there by yourself for a while now!”

He blanched at the sound of Teuchi’s voice, terrified that he’d been discovered. “No, I— I’m alright, I’m just waiting for my mom to come pick me up,” he replied lightly. He let out a practiced chuckle, drumming his fingers lightly on the bench. “She’s out shopping at the market.”

Somehow, Teuchi seemed to pick up on the lie, stepping out of his booth to sit next to him. “Are you sure? You can come sit at my restaurant while you wait. I don’t mind.”

Even after Teuchi plied him out of the shadows with a free bowl of ramen— “Don’t worry, it’s on the house,” he said— and made small talk while Kabuto sat and ate, he still stared at him warily, chakra coiled defensively around himself. Teuchi asked him questions about school, about his family. He replied only in short, polite answers, nothing that would give too much away, should this turn out to be an interrogation. 

After he finished his bowl, Teuchi opened his mouth to speak and Kabuto froze, half-expecting Teuchi to call him out on his lies and signal for the Leaf’s shinobi to come arrest him.

“You should come by more often,” he said instead.

He looked up at him, wide-eyed and confused. “Huh?”

“You remind me of my daughter. She’s about your age.”

When he left, bowing and stammering out his gratitude, Teuchi didn’t bring up the fact that his mother never came back from the market. He didn’t say anything; he just waved and smiled as Kabuto walked away.

Teuchi is an anomaly, or perhaps Kabuto is simply getting sloppy. By all rights, this interaction should have never taken place at all, and yet Kabuto can’t help but return to the restaurant each chance he gets.

 _Don’t get attached,_ they’d said. That had been the second rule he’d learned.

Perhaps he’s failed in that respect as well. He draws sketches of all the shops, taking intricate notes on the layout of the Leaf’s restaurants. In his room back in the Sound, he has a drawing of Ichiraku’s in one of his desk drawers, hidden away from prying eyes.

“Why do you need these?” Orochimaru had asked one day, thumbing through Kabuto’s notes. He’d placed a card on the table, a blueprint of the Leaf’s food district printed neatly on one side.

“It’s useful to know the layout, is it not?” he replied, and Orochimaru had simply chuckled indulgently at his thoroughness. 

He memorizes each nook and cranny of the Leaf hungrily until he can paint a picture of it in his mind with perfect accuracy. He tells himself it will come in handy later on, and pushes aside the feelings of comfort and warmth that come when he thinks about the village.

He thinks of the Sound, of Orochimaru, and tells himself _this is home._ He is not meant to belong in the Leaf, and compresses those traitorous thoughts into a compact ball, ready to be discarded at a moment’s notice.

In truth, he thinks he might even be sad when the time comes to shed this identity and raze the Leaf to the ground. But that is a problem for another time, and so he lets the thought fade, washed away like grime by the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> You can’t live undercover in a village for several years without retaining at least some degree of attachment, right? I had this idea in the middle of the night and wrote it without any sleep, so sorry if any part of it doesn’t make sense. 
> 
> Comments of any kind are greatly appreciated! :)


End file.
